Zoos

Dear Stephanie,

My favorite part of a zoo is the reptile house, the part where they keep the nocturnal animals.  There are often mammals and birds and amphibians here as well, but it’s almost always in the reptile house. I love that you never know what’s going to be in those cages, even when they are labeled. 

The best part is looking into the cages, all full of anticipation and trepidation. I’m always terrified that some grotesque hairless mammal or many-legged amphibian will burst from its hiding place to smash up against the glass like the alien from Independence Day. Of course this never happens.

But the mystery of the nocturnal animals always draws me to that dim and deserted part of the zoo. The few people there speak in hushed tones and move slowly from display to display, murmuring to their companions and sometimes tentatively pointing to something at the back of a cage, always wondering how these creatures can live without the sun.

I can’t remember the last time I actually saw a nocturnal animal at the zoo, but I prefer it that way. The real thing can’t be better than the mystery.

Love, 

Gena

Jacqueline Kennedy

Dear Mark,

Whenever I think about Jackie Kennedy, I always think about that pink Chanel suit. It’s such an iconic image that it’s hard to picture her in any other outfit.

I always wonder what she thought about as she put on that suit in Dallas.

As she pulled on her stockings, did she have a twinge of doubt?

When she slid on the pink wool skirt, did she wonder if this parade was a bad idea?

 

Did she sense there was something wrong as she slowly did up the buttons on her jacket?

I can imagine her putting her fears aside as she carefully places her pillbox hat on her perfectly styled hair, telling herself that it’s nothing. She fixes a smile on her face, carefully smoothes the wrinkles from her suit and goes to join her husband for the parade.

Love,

Gena

Words

Dear Becky,

 

words are a hard. they’re so important, but so easy and so complicated and so everything that we ever mean or want. I suppose that’s why there are so many theories. It’s all so semantic structuralism, positivism, deconstructivism, structuralism i’m not a big fan of the deconstructive. when I think about it too much my head hurts.

all that business about something begin defined by what its not, french derrida,

everything is contradictory, it just all seems like pretentious bullshit. in my weaker moments, though, the theory makes more sense than i would like it too.

words are just symbols for things, and the words, no matter how good they are,

even if they sound like a hyperbole of perfection, are never as good as the real thing.

maybe if i write the word line in a line it will somehow jump the distance between the word and the thing itself. i’m not even sure that would work very well.

line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line line

no, that didn’t really help. i suppose my problem is the difference between the word

on the page and the spoken word, even the word in my mouth and the word the pen writes

are different. the poem in my head is above love, the warm just got out of the bath feeling but writing it down somehow turns it into cheap lust and hot tubs. just close enough

to sort of relate, but only in the neurons between my brain and my hand. reading it out loud turns lust into hate and revenge, boiling kettles screeching steam into the midnight air. i don’t seem to like reading my own poetry out loud, i sound too much like

a broadcaster on national public radio. not enough emotion, just the news and weather

at five, followed by schubert’s piano sonata in b flat. then i’m all nervous because most

people fear public speaker more than anything else in the world. my hands tend to shake which makes it difficult to read the words on the paper, so i can’t be worried

about what words are going to come out of mouth. if I somehow managed to

write a poem about what was in my head, i want to make sure I say the right thing

(this never happens). reading is damn frustrating but it all makes sense somehow.

it makes it hard to talk write think about life if you’re not sure what you will actually say.

Love,

 Gena

Breaking into Westminster

Dear Jenny,

I’m not sure if you are asking about how I would break into Westminster the castle or Westminster the dog show.  Breaking into a dog show would be much more amusing than a royal residence, in my opinion, so I’ll just assume you meant that.  I suppose my reasons are irrelevant, but let’s say I’m doing it to steal the dog that wins Best in Show.

First, we should discuss how to gain access to the backstage area. I assume that this area is fairly secure, so we shall have to pretend to belong.  The easiest person to impersonate would be a dog owner, because I won’t have to know how to do anything but look posh. To pretend to be a trainer or groomer would be much harder, as I would actually have to interact with a dog at some point (I’m not the best with animals).  So, wearing a pastel suit, sensible heels, and pearls, I would find myself backstage.

Obviously, I would have to wait until after the show to steal the winning dog. This part was a bit trickier for me to figure out. I think I would have to have several accomplices for this part, especially one who has access to show dogs. Once the winner was announced, I would contact my partner to tell him which breed one, and he would rush me another dog of that same breed. During the celebration after the show, a second accomplice would attempt to steal the winning dog.  As he fled, I would intercept him carrying the decoy dog, and pretend to recover the winning dog. He would escape with the actual winner, while I would return triumphant with the fake. This part will obviously work better with a smaller dog.  After I had returned the dog, I would make my excuses and leave quickly to claim whatever reward I was promised for kidnapping a show dog from Westminster.

I hope you enjoyed this hypothetical scenario, even if it is painfully obvious that I know nothing about heists. Please don’t ever ask me to actually steal anything. Thanks.

Love,

Gena

Birthdays

Dear Gwen (who is also my mother),

I’m so glad you asked for a letter about birthdays, because as you know birthdays are quite possibly my favorite holidays in the whole world. I love my own birthday in a vain, selfish way, but I also adore other people’s birthdays. Other people’s birthdays are the ideal opportunity to buy the perfect gift, which is a most satisfying endeavor.  One of my great talents is buying the perfect gift (and you have received many of these gifts), and I know that I inherited this skill from you. However, I feel like there are a few simple rules to buying this almost unattainable perfect gift that I would like to share with you and all the others who may be reading this letter. So here they are:

1.       Don’t ask for a list. Lists are for the weak. One of the best parts about a gift is the surprise of it, and you can’t be surprised by something you’ve asked for.

2.       Think about the person you’re buying for. I know this sounds stupid, but do it anyone. The receiver of your gift has at one point mentioned something they desire. It is your job to remember what this is and buy it for them, because they will not buy it for themselves.

3.       Don’t be afraid to get weird.  I thought about calling this rule “Go big or go home,” but that’s not quite the sentiment I’m going for.  Take a risk with your gift. The strangest thing is often the perfect thing to buy.

 On my last birthday, I received a gift which followed all of these rules, and is in strong contention for the Number One Gift of All Time.  My sister gave me a caricature of the two of us kayaking in Florida. I didn’t ask for this drawing, so there’s rule number one.  I don’t get to see my sister that often, so this is an excellent memento of a great vacation and great memories for the two of us, thus following rule number two.  And finally, it is very strange (as in we both have pompadours and look like dudes), as per rule number three. 

So all of you reading this letter, go out and buy someone you like a gift they weren’t expecting. While it’s fun to receive gifts, it may be more fun to give them.

Love,

Gena

Monitor Lizards

Dear Joanna,

Did you know that monitor lizards can count? According to Wikipedia, they can count up to six, as well as work together to steal eggs from other lizard’s nests. I don’t know about you, but I find this terrifying.

I keep imagining I’m on vacation in India or Australia, anywhere the lizard makes its home, sleeping peacefully on crisp white sheets in a hotel by the beach. I jolt awake, not know why until I see the lizard at the bottom of the bed.  It advances slowly, keeping its black, empty eyes trained on mine. Its claws are leaving tiny triangle tears in the sheets. The moonlight turns its brown scales into a suit of pearls.  I try to move: kick it away, jump out of the bed, anything. Nothing works. I’m paralyzed, trapped in a bed with deranged foot-long lizard. 

I can’t look away as it reaches my left hand, slowly takes my thumb into its mouth, and with one savage twist, rips it off. I scream. It doesn’t stop the lizard from counting my fingers as it slowly eats them one by one.

Needless to say, this makes me very glad I live in Chicago, fat away from the natural habitat of the monitor lizard.

Love,

Gena

The Hold Steady's Separation Sunday

Dear Lindsey,

I suppose I should I tell you that I’ve never listened to the Hold Steady before, but I am listening to Separation Sunday as I write this to you.

This album is so American. If I owned a red convertible, I would be driving down the highway through the desert blasting this album, especially “Banging Camp.” You could join me on this road trip, I wouldn’t mind.

That’s just the beginning though. Me and my red convertible would drive to some small town 4^th of July festival, where the bands play outside downtown next to the one bridge across the river. On the 4^th of July everyone looks best is cutoff jeans and white tank tops, so that’s what I’m wearing.  It’s so hot out that no one can think about anything but warm beer, hot dogs, and fireworks.  The air is hot and humid, so thick I can feel the water molecules part for me as I move through the crowd.  

 

After the show, after the fireworks, the oppressive heat finally starts to fade.  I decide to leave this small town, go back to the city. The top’s still down on the convertible, I’m hoping to catch a stray breeze.

I can’t wait for summer.

Love,

Gena

p.s. Congratulations on being the first letter!